


ten points

by facingthenorthwind (spacegandalf)



Series: space opera au [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Community: HPFT, Gen, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 20:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18038585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegandalf/pseuds/facingthenorthwind
Summary: There was nothing James Potter loved more than quidditch, except perhaps winning at quidditch. Unfortunately, the game was not going in their favour.





	ten points

**Author's Note:**

> For HPFT's Great Collab, theme: back from the brink!

There was nothing James Potter loved more than quidditch. The feeling of wind in his fur, the way the sail sang when he had the sailboard at just the right angle, the wind whistling through his antlers which his parents refused to let him remove. (“You’re still a child, James! You won’t be playing quidditch forever, James! What if the surgery went wrong and you just got split antlers, James! What would people think at job interviews, James!” Honestly, it was like they didn’t think he was good enough to go pro. Which he _was_ , thank you! But enough of that.)

The point was that James loved quidditch, and there was no better feeling than sailing around the pitch, coordinating with his fellow chasers to score goals on the horrid Slidderon keeper, Blimmington. It was his first game back after velvet, and he’d felt so _good_ about the ritual of checking over his board, putting on his gear, and making sure there was a rubber cap on every one of his antler tines so he didn’t accidentally disembowel anyone. 

He’d felt good about approximately nothing that had happened since he walked out onto the pitch.

They’d lost the toss at the beginning of the game, so Macnair had been able to pick which end was theirs. Grybbinport got the quaffle first but couldn’t keep it, and the game was a dirty, messy thing full of lost possession and nothing quite connecting. 

Back when the score was still a semi-respectable 70-40 (in Slidderon’s favour — it was always in Slidderon’s favour, Grybbinport had not held the lead for one single second), Mung had stolen the quaffle off Greengrass and sped down the pitch, Przybyszewski following close behind so they could pull the move they’d been practising for weeks, one chaser feinting as if to score but then passing it so the other chaser could score on a distracted keeper. James had hovered closer to centre pitch in case things went wrong — there was no point in having all three of your chasers right down one end when two would do.

Everything was playing out like a dream — James could almost _hear_ the hum of Mung’s board, it was picture perfect — until a bludger hit them right in the delicate spot beneath their venom sac and they jerked forward, reflexively dropping the quaffle. A Slidderon was waiting underneath them, of course, and a few minutes later despite James’s best efforts, they scored. Mung apologised as they all got back into position for the toss, but James shook his head. Mung ducked. James was still getting used to his antlers — it was always difficult to know where they were in space, especially this early in the season. 

“I should’ve stopped them,” James said, frustrated. “That was my job, I was hanging back just in case something went wrong and they went right past me.”

Mung shrugged. “We’ll do it this time.”

They did not do it that time.

* * *

“Looks like we might be playing with some old bludgers,” Wikramanayake said from the commentary box. “Apart from that hit on Mung, they seem to only be targeting warmbloo— sorry, professor, endothermic players. Of course, they were all supposed to be changed from tracking body heat to tracking electrical activity three years ago, but who knows, perhaps Slidderon, which has a higher proportion of col— uh, exothermic players left over from before the change switched the bludgers. Professor — no, I’m just saying that this is perfectly legitimate speculation! It’s part of commentary! Professor!”

James was glad that Wikramanayake apparently had commentating privileges revoked for the next ten minutes, in which at least there was no voice to do a live replay of every time Grybbinport messed up and Slidderon scored four separate times. 

The game dragged on, a seemingly unending parade of Slidderon scoring punctuated by the occasional successful Grybbinport breakaway. The gap between their scores widened until the situation was, frankly, absolutely dire — it didn’t matter if Harris caught the snitch; whatever she did, Slidderon would still win. A hundred and sixty points! It would be the biggest disgrace of James’s quidditch career, to have been on the pitch, to be partly responsible for a loss of this magnitude.

While before James had been desperate for Harris to put them out of their misery, he now began praying that the snitch stay completely hidden. It was hardly as if Harris could _not_ go for it, if she saw it — chances were the Slidderon seeker would see it as well. As much as James hated to admit it, he was a formidable player. 

By some miracle (well, James gave credit where credit was due: it was less divine intervention and more an excellently-executed play by Przybyszewski and Mung), the gap in the score was wrestled back down to a hundred and fifty before anyone saw a glint of gold. A tie wasn’t good enough if they wanted to win the Cup, but it was slightly better than the utterly humiliating defeat that would have come otherwise.

It was only five minutes later that James found himself streaking towards the goal, dodging a bludger and a Slidderon chaser by such a small margin that he could feel the bludger brush against his fur and count the Slidderon’s freckles. He was still at least five seconds away from where he’d usually throw the quaffle when he heard the crowd get excited — it certainly wasn’t about him, and a quick glance showed they were looking somewhere else entirely.

It had to be the snitch.

He desperately willed his board to go faster, leaning forward slightly but not too much in case he tipped over and fell off. Even the keeper looked distracted, but he couldn’t rely on that; instead he zig-zagged like they had been doing in practice, confusing him and then throwing the quaffle. He saw it go in, but the cheer that arose a second later wasn’t for him: he could see it in the way the keeper deflated completely, shaking his head.

Harris had done it.

He turned around to see Harris with her armed raised in triumph holding a glinting, golden ball, and looked at the scoreboard with not a little apprehension. Had he timed it right? Did his goal count? If his goal did count, did Harris catching the snitch count? 

But as Sirius bodily smashed into him, yelling in his ear, he knew without needing to see it.

They won. By ten points. The Cup was theirs.


End file.
